


Somewhere Down the Road

by sleepypercy



Series: Kerouac Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam goes to visit Dean during his spring break. My excuse to get Dean greased up and working on cars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to [cosmonaught](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmonaught/pseuds/cosmonaught) for the beta.

Sweat dripped down the back of Sam’s neck, clinging to the ends of his hair and discoloring the collar of his t-shirt. It was the middle of April, spring break, and nearly all of his friends had decided to party it up in SoCal or Mexico. Sam, on the other hand, was in South Dakota with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, standing in front of a scrap yard underneath a rusted, metal arch with the words _Singer’s Auto Salvage_ displayed across the top.  
  
Dean wasn’t expecting him—which was probably because Sam hadn’t told him he was coming. It was too good a surprise to spoil, although he’d had to restrain the impulse to blurt it out in the middle of every phone conversation since late February.  
  
Behind Sam was a house where a grumpy, bearded gentleman wearing a trucker’s cap and an impatient expression had nearly slammed the door in his face after telling Sam that he wasn’t interested in talking to any solicitors or bible-thumpers. Luckily, Sam managed to blurt out, “Wait—um, Mr. Singer?” and the door paused just before shutting entirely, giving Sam enough time to hurriedly give his name and explain that he was looking for Dean.  
  
A grating and laborious sigh resounded from the other side before the door was flung open with a hard yank. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” the man had asked in gruff exasperation. He gave Sam another hard look then dryly commented: “So _you’re_ the reason my phone bill’s been jacked up to high heaven.”  
  
“Ah… yeah.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck as a small, sheepish smile curled his lips. “Sorry about that.”  
  
Waving a hand towards the east area of the scrap yard, Mr. Singer said, “Dean’s out there, somewhere. You’re welcome to go find him. He was supposed to be changing the oil in my old Honda, but the damn boy’s got the attention span of a goldfish.”  
  
Despite the man’s prickly edges, Sam liked him at once; could hear bits of Dean in his tone. He smiled, dimples creasing his cheeks as he said, “Thank you, sir,” before heading in the general direction that Mr. Singer had indicated.  
  
It didn’t take long to find Dean. Sam could hear his grunts echoing across the yard, and he quickly followed the sounds to the source. After Sam rounded a couple piles of broken and smashed cars, Dean came into view. A thin, well-worn black t-shirt stretched tight across his back and shoulders, showing off the rhythmic contractions of his muscles as Dean’s sun-pinked arms plunged deep inside the hood of a jacked-up Chevy, straining to tighten whatever was gripped in his strong hands.  
  
As Dean huffed impatiently and leaned further down, his shirt pulled up to reveal the dip of his lower back, golden skin flashing like a ray of sun through a window blind. Sam’s fingers immediately itched to run across the expanse of Dean’s torso, reach around his hips, and unbutton the fly of Dean’s worn and holey jeans, letting them slip down his legs and pool around his feet.  
  
Sam thought he’d been quiet, but Dean must’ve had the ears of a wolf because, without even turning around, he said:  
  
“Hey, could you hand me the needle-nosed pliers in my tool bag?”  
  
With a low chuckle, Sam dropped his duffle in the dirt and moved to look inside the tan canvas bag on the ground. But Dean’s spine had immediately stiffed and straightened at the sound of Sam’s amusement, and, slowly, he turned around so Sam could finally see him head-on.  
  
Dean’s arms and hands were streaked with grease, and at some point he must have scrubbed a hand over his face because there were grey smudges swiped across the freckles on his nose and cheeks. His forehead was creased in surprise, but Sam just smirked and waited until the shocked look on Dean’s face transmuted into one of genuine pleasure.  
  
“Sammy?” Dean said incredulously, looking as if he were fighting to tone down the grin on his face but unable to do so. The nickname slipped under Sam’s skin, flooding the center of his body with warmth and moving outwards. His dad often used that name when he was being either sentimental or authoritarian, and it usually rubbed Sam wrong either way, but from Dean, it was never anything but affectionate.  
  
“Surprised?”  
  
“Hell yeah. I thought you were in Mexico.” After giving his hands a cursory wipe down with a grease-stained rag, Dean opened up his arms and ordered Sam to “c’mere,” before pulling him tight against his chest. “Fuck, man, it’s good to see you,” Dean breathed into Sam’s ear.  
  
“S’been too long,” Sam agreed, holding on tighter when he could feel Dean start to break away. Chuckling, Dean muttered a few things— _bossy sonofabitch_ and _over-sized puppy_ amongst them—but waited patiently until Sam had his fill and let go.  
  
“How’d you get here?” Dean asked, eyes twinkling knowingly.  
  
“Greyhound.” Sam matched Dean’s meaningful grin, resting a hand just to the right of Dean on the open front of the car, feeling the sun-heated metal warm his palm.  
  
“Good trip?” Dean leaned back slightly, his back curving against the car’s grill while his hands spread out behind him and his chin tipped up so he could stare up at Sam with green eyes that always seemed to know what Sam wanted, even when Sam didn’t.  
  
The sight of Dean covered in grease and oil and leaning against a car was too mouth-watering to resist, and Sam put his other hand on Dean’s leg while he nuzzled into the side of the older man’s neck and breathed in the scent of Dean mixed in with the sharp, heady scent of hot car engine. To Sam, those smells were always one and the same. Dean always seemed to faintly exude the aroma of motor oil and metal, creating an instant trigger for Sam whenever he was near anything even remotely mechanical.  
  
“You’ve ruined buses for me,” Sam accused, voice muted against Dean’s skin. “Can barely get near one without getting hard.”  
  
“Must’ve been frustrating,” Dean commented unsympathetically, tilting his neck a little more while sliding a hand behind Sam’s head and gripping loose hair between his fingers.  
  
Snorting softly, Sam let his mouth skim just behind Dean’s ear, mouthing at the sensitive skin. “Mmm-hmm,” he agreed. “You have no idea.”  
  
Dean started to say something else, but Sam moved to press a hot mouth into Dean’s. Months of not being able to touch Dean plus a whole day and a half of frustrated anticipation had all been building up to this moment, and Sam was out of patience. He shoved Dean against the car, hard, and crowded himself in tight, loving the deep satisfaction of being able to throw around someone so thick and solid. Based on how tightly Dean’s fingers were grasping his hair, Dean liked it too.  
  
When Dean couldn’t be pushed any further back into the car frame, Sam gripped him by the torso and hoisted him up, pushing Dean back to sit on the edge of the lifted, open car where he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the hood. As Dean settled in, finding his balance, a few tools and engine pieces fell off the car’s edge and clanged loudly to the ground. Sam ignored those and leaned in to claim Dean’s mouth again, all insistent teeth and tongue and everything that usually made Dean forget about trying to take control since Sam handled things so well on his own.  
  
However, the brazen manhandling was apparently too much for Dean to ignore. He pulled away from Sam’s lips with a short huff, eyes narrowed like he was about to rip Sam a new one, but Sam grinned, expression bratty and unremorseful and more than a little teasing as he dared Dean to _just fuckin’ try_ and tell him off.  
  
Too familiar with Sam’s uncanny ability to get his own way, Dean sighed loudly and rolled his eyes instead. Then he smirked like the higher angle suited him better and grabbed Sam by the back of the head, crashing their mouths together and curling his legs around Sam’s back to pull him as close as humanly possible. Sam had to slouch a little to fit against the grill of the car, but then Dean scooted forward another couple of inches and they slotted together perfectly with Sam inside Dean’s legs. The stance made  it easy for Sam to start up a slow grind with two layers of thick denim between them that Sam made plans to remove really, really soon.  
  
“Miss me?” Sam asked, voice already rasping as Dean moved his mouth to his neck to suck at all the salt pooled around Sam’s collarbone.  
  
“Not at all,” Dean retorted, his fingers and mouth all betraying the lie. Pulling Sam’s head closer and tangling his hands in soft, sweat-damp hair once again, Dean moved his mouth near Sam’s ear, voice thick as he chuckled and requested, “So tell me more about that bus ride of yours. What got you this hot and needy?”  
  
It was getting difficult to breathe with so much heat sizzling in the air and building between them, and Sam could hear his breathing turn deeper as he obligingly answered, “Thought about that first time you touched me. When you slid my jeans down in the dark bus— _fuck_ , Dean, keep moving like that, feels so good. Thought about you jacking me off and how hot you were in my hand, already hard and leaking before I even touched you. Thought about how bad I wanted to blow you that night.”  
  
When Sam started making little circles into Dean’s crotch, Dean wrenched his mouth away with a moan and it was his turn to start panting. The contrast of Dean’s heat-soaked cheeks with the grease smudged across his face only heightened the man’s beauty. It accented the angles of his cheeks, brightened his green eyes, highlighted the dark pink of his lips. Sam moved his thumb across the sweat and oil and stubble, still as grateful as ever for their kismet meeting and that, for all his obvious fear of commitment, Dean kept coming back to Sam.  
  
“But you wouldn’t let me,” Sam continued reprovingly after a short pause, tone still bitter from the thought of that missed opportunity. “Told me you had bigger plans. I would’ve been so good, too, Dean. Would have gotten down on that bus floor for you; squeezed myself between your thighs and done things with my mouth that would have made you scream. You gonna let me do them now? Gonna let me put your cock in my mouth?”  
  
“If that’s what you want,” Dean groaned back, face flushed and skin damp with sweat. There was no relief from the heat in this breezeless air made worse by the radiating heat of their bodies. “Hell yeah, Sammy. Gonna get on your knees for me, baby?”  
  
Sam tried to chuckle, Dean never could hold back the endearments once things got this far, but he couldn’t manage it at the moment. He could only pull back and nod. “Yeah,” he said, fumbling with Dean’s button and fly before grabbing Dean’s pants and yanking them down, pulling Dean off the car in the process.  
  
Dean’s leaking dick had left wet spots on his boxer-briefs, and Sam ducked down to mouth at the material, getting it wetter as he tasted the pre-come through the fabric and felt the bulge thicken from the contact. When Sam tugged the underwear down as well, Dean’s cock slapped against his stomach and Sam eagerly slipped it into his mouth. His hands were on the back of Dean’s knees as he twisted his tongue around the top, sliding through the bitterness of pre-come then sucking his cock deeper down, curling his lips over his teeth and working a steady bob.  
  
Dean was making noises—garbled moans and thick gasps of air—as Sam’s hands slid up and down the back of Dean’s legs, eventually moving up to knead Dean’s ass. When Dean widened his stance, Sam tongued up the side of his cock, mouthed the head while one hand started a quick jack at the base. Dean was so close, dick rock hard and dripping, and Sam moved his other hand between Dean’s ass, barely getting a finger in before Dean shot violently all across Sam’s face, painting his mouth and cheeks with hot come and fisting Sam’s hair tight enough to hurt.  
  
Using one hand, Sam pulled himself out of his pants, his dick purple and achingly hard. But before he had a chance to touch himself, Dean dragged him up to standing and smashed their mouths together, putting his hands on Sam’s crotch and pushing pants and underwear all down at once, and all that open air was heaven.  
  
“I gotcha,” Dean said dizzily, twisting them both around so he could prop Sam against the bumper of the car. After turning his face to spit into his hand, Dean reached down to slide hard and fast, his hand stripping Sam’s cock while his mouth slipped over Sam’s in messy kisses. All that heat rapidly culminated with Sam groaning into Dean’s, his eyes rolling back as he spilled hot and wet over Dean’s wrist and up his stomach, feeling every pulse driven out of him hard enough to have him snow-blinded and lightheaded for a minute.  
  
“Fuck, Dean, _fuck_ ,” Sam kept repeating as Dean milked every last drop until Sam pushed his hand away and let his head fall onto Dean’s shoulder while he sucked in hot, dry air. Sam could feel sweat pouring in long drops down the back of his thigh, under his arms, and all through his hair like the breaking of a fever without actually losing any of the aggressive heat.  
  
When Dean loosened his hold in Sam’s hair, started petting him as their pulses slowed, Sam couldn’t help quirking a smile, thinking that no matter how many times Dean called him a girl or told him he needed a haircut, Sam knew better. He knew Dean loved his hair long like this, loved gripping it tightly as he fucked Sam’s mouth or running his fingers loosely through the strands until they both fell asleep. Sam had no intention of ever cutting it short.  
  
When they were both more-or-less coherent, Dean touched his hand to one of Sam’s flushed cheeks, smiling wryly before leaning over to place a brief kiss on the younger man’s lips.  
  
“Hungry?” Dean questioned while they gathered up their clothes.  
  
“Starving,” Sam admitted, grimacing as he tugged his pants up sweaty, sticky thighs.  
  
“I bet my dad’s got dinner started.” Dean threw Sam’s shirt at him and picked up the boy’s duffle bag while Sam pulled his t-shirt on. Throwing a smirk Sam’s way, Dean buttoned his jeans and remarked, “Don’t know if we’ll be able to fool him, though. You’ve got dirt on your knees and grease everywhere and your hair’s a fucking mess. Sorry about that.”  
  
Shrugging a little, Sam laughed and swiped at the knees of his pants. “Doesn’t seem like he misses much, anyway. Did you change the oil in his Honda yet?”  
  
“Nah. I’ll do it tomorrow,” Dean replied unconcernedly. Slinging the duffle over his shoulder, Dean winked and added, “I’ve still got a few plans for you after dinner. Hope you’re willing to work for your room and board.”  
  
Grinning, Sam did his best to tame the wild mess of his hair with his fingers as he followed Dean back to the house.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Singer rolled his eyes when they both came inside the house, and although he growled at Dean for getting dust and grease all over the front room, he didn’t comment at all on their disheveled appearances, just nodded once at Sam as he walked by.

They ended up taking their dinner into the living room and parking in front of the TV where Mr. Singer— _Bobby_ , as Sam was quickly corrected—put on some kind of western that Sam thought he half-recognized. Bobby’s spot was an old, well-loved recliner which left the couch for Dean and Sam. Hopping over the armrest, Dean settled in comfortably, spreading himself out so that his back was slightly angled towards Bobby and his legs knocked against Sam’s.

It was nice; languid in a way that they didn’t often get a chance to enjoy, not with rushed visits and a shared dorm room. Sam wasn’t really paying a lot of attention to the movie. It was something made in the late 70s and a little slow at times, so he sleepily leaned back into the couch cushions, nudging his legs further against Dean’s and feeling content when Dean smirked and pushed right back.

When the movie was over, Bobby got up to turn everything off then walked by Dean, patting his shoulder and wishing them both a good night.

“Breakfast’s at seven,” Bobby added. “Anyone too tired to get his royal ass outta bed has to go without until lunch.”

Dean gave a small grunt of acknowledgement. Bobby’s warning was clearly meant for Sam anyway. But Sam shot out an immediate “Yes, sir,” and grinned broadly until the edges of Bobby’s lips started twitching up in response. Scrubbing a hand across his face and muttering another goodnight, the man turned away to rinse out his glass before heading to bed.

“Do you always have to do that?” Dean commented after Bobby had left, leading Sam up the stairs.

“Do what?”

“Flash that goofy, Kansas farm-boy smile at everyone you meet. It’s kind of a dirty move, you know.”

“It’s called natural charm,” Sam retorted, taking the steps two at a time and turning to wait for Dean to catch up when he reached the top.

“Oh, so you think you’re charming?” Dean replied skeptically, shouldering his way past Sam and shooting him an amused look.

“’Course I am,” he scoffed back. “Got a personal invite to breakfast, didn’t I?”

Dean’s lips twitched, but Sam didn’t wait to find out what kind of sarcastic retort he had prepared; he just leaned down to press his mouth into Dean’s. He’d only planned on stealing a few kisses in the hallway but found those intentions quickly blown to pieces when Dean turned all soft and pliant, his mouth opening hot and eager against Sam’s. Blood rising quickly —like it always did with Dean—Sam deepened the kiss. He loved how breathless and sloppy Dean got when Sam pushed into him, how Dean’s hands automatically went up to tangle in his hair like he couldn’t help himself.

Letting his hands fall to play with the edge of Dean’s shirt, Sam brushed a couple of his fingers against the line of smooth skin just above Dean’s jeans, knowing how sensitive Dean was on the wings of his hips.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean said in a hushed groan, shuddering underneath Sam’s fingers as they teasingly skated back and forth across his hip bones. “Why’d you have to start this _here_?”

“You mean in your own house?” Sam answered, grinning into Dean’s skin before pressing his lips around the collar of Dean’s neck and doing his best to leave a few _Sam-was-here_ marks. Briefly, he wondered what Bobby’s reaction to those marks would be in the morning and, amused, did his best to make the spots even darker and more noticeable.

“No, _asshole_ , in the hallway,” Dean hissed. He tried to shove Sam towards the bedroom door but found himself helpless in the face of Sam’s stubborn, brick-wall tendency to never do _what_ Dean wanted _when_ he wanted it. “Dude, come on—let’s move this party a few feet to the left so we can get to the good part.”

Smirking, Sam gave Dean just enough room to slip past him. But before Dean got very far, Sam grabbed his arm, refusing to let him take more than a couple steps without Sam pressing his mouth into his lips or neck or—when Dean managed to dodge out of Sam’s grip and make a brief run for it—right on the tips of Dean’s callused fingers. Both of them trying to shush their laughter, they tripped over each other’s feet and lips until Dean finally got his hand on the door, pushed it open, and shoved Sam inside.

Sam quickly fell back against the bed, fully expecting to be mauled the second his back hit the mattress. Instead, Dean stopped just short of the bed with a contemplative smile on his face.

“What?” Sam prompted, confused.

Dean shrugged sheepishly and muttered, “Nothing,” just before his knees crinkled the covers as he knelt down. Slotting Sam between his thighs, he leaned down to place his mouth on Sam’s belly, right next to the dip of his navel, and Sam forgot about prodding further as he felt his body respond and arch into Dean’s lips and tongue moving across his stomach.

“ _God_ ,” Sam muttered, shifting his torso as too many sensations hit him at once.

“You can call me Dean,” he murmured with a smile against Sam’s skin, nipping at his waist while pushing Sam’s jeans down just far enough to let his fingers indent Sam’s hips. “Though I wouldn’t say no to some bodily worship and sacrificial offerings of pie.”

Huffing out an amused chuckle, Sam replied, “Don’t hold your breath for those demands, Gozer. I— _nngg_.” Dean snaked a hand inside Sam’s unzipped jeans, and Sam could feel all his blood rushing to fill in that one area, causing most of his higher brain functions to short-circuit. Dean always managed to get him from zero to sixty faster than anyone he’d ever been with. He knows it, too, and gleefully uses it to his advantage whenever possible.

Sam’s pants were tossed somewhere across the room, and Dean immediately went to work on Sam’s cock, dragging his tongue up the ridges and veins before running his lips across the head a few times and engulfing Sam’s dick in wet heat that slipped all the way down to his throat. Sam could feel Dean’s tongue flatten inside his mouth as he started bobbing up and down Sam’s cock, and the steady rhythm had Sam panting into the side of his arm.

Sam couldn’t help the sounds coming from his mouth as he fisted the bed spread and tried to catch glimpses of Dean’s talented mouth at work. Out of respect for Bobby, Sam tried— _really_ tried—to keep the sounds to a minimum. But then Dean’s hands wandered further down, kneading his balls, and Sam’s eyes rolled up as he gasped and widened his legs, and all he could do was hope that the walls were thick enough between here and the other side of the house and that the man’s third glass of whiskey had conked him out for the night.

When he was able to prop himself up enough to look down his body, he could see his blood-dark cock disappearing into Dean’s cherry-red lips as Dean messily took him in with a concentrated, smooth glide. Every movement was slutty and enthusiastic since he knew how much Sam liked to watch, and Dean soaked up that rapt attention like sunshine. Sam could hear the wet sounds of Dean sucking him down, and that dirty, squelching sound was _almost_ enough to have him coming right in Dean’s mouth. But he didn’t want that just yet—wanted to feel Dean inside him when he came—so he took a deep breath and tried to will down that building pressure in his gut, but Dean was not making it easy.

When he felt Dean’s fingers skate lower, Sam tilted his hips up, and the pressure on his dick slowed down just slightly as he felt Dean’s wet fingers breach him. He had no idea when Dean had grabbed the lube, although knowing Dean, it could very well have just been stashed under the bed. Sam let out a shuddering, soft sigh and focused on relaxing, on letting Dean stretch him open, using those strong fingers to work him as smoothly as possible.

“Fuckin’ _love_ your hands,” Sam slurred, his brain-circuits not quite up-to-speed yet, and he hadn’t even planned on saying that out loud. Dean’s responding low chuckles vibrated Sam’s cock before he pulled off all the way, lips still shiny and sticky sweet. It was just as well—Sam was still too close—but part of him still cried out for that loss of hot, perfect pressure.

“Oh really?” Dean laughed again, and his other hand came up, sliding underneath Sam’s shirt and letting his fingers skate up his chest, across his nipples, rucking some of the cotton material up to his armpits.

“ _R-really_ ,” Sam said as firmly as he was able, reaching down to cup his hand over the one on his chest, moving it to slide over more skin and feeling the lube from Dean’s fingertips spreading slick, snail-like trails that glinted in the low lamp-light. As Dean worked Sam up to two fingers with a steady pressure that had Sam writhing into the _hotfuckgood_ burn, Sam found himself unable to curb the compulsion, more confessions spilling from his mouth. “Miss you every damn day,” he said, still holding onto Dean’s spread-out palm on his chest, gripping it tight like a lifeline. “Think about your hands all the time. Think—fuck, Dean, _more_.”

Against the onslaught of sensations, Sam laid his head back and felt himself rock into the motion of Dean’s fingers in his ass, loving how full he was feeling, his body getting ready to take Dean’s cock. “Think about them in my hair,” Sam managed to continue through uneven breaths, body rocking harder, the bed shaking on its legs. “On my arms, sliding up my back… working me open, just like this. Have to press my own fingers in there sometimes when I think about them, because I get so fucking _hot_ , wanting you.”

“Dammit Sam,” Dean ground out hoarsely, pulling his fingers out while Sam whimpered. Sam could hear the quick, frantic sound of Dean ripping his jeans open, shoving them down just far enough to get his dick out. Sam had one glimpse of Dean’s flushed, leaking cock before he shoved Sam’s thighs back, lined himself up, and pushed himself in with one fluid motion, both men groaning in relief as Dean sunk into that tight channel.

And even though he loved this, Sam couldn’t say that some part of him wasn’t disappointed that he was on the receiving end because, stone cold fact, Dean looked beautiful taking cock. Like, really fucking amazing in ways Sam would never tell Dean about because he didn’t think he’d appreciate being told how graceful and fragile and fuckin’ _overwhelmed_ he looked every time Sam slammed into him.

“That how you’ve been passing the time?” Dean asked, inhaling deep breaths of air as Sam relaxed and Dean cocked his hips forward, bottoming out. “Getting this hot, perfect ass ready to take my cock the moment you jumped off that bus?” By the glazed look in Dean’s eyes, Sam could tell that Dean was imagining him just the way he’d been, alone in his dorm room with his legs spread wide, fingering himself open, mouth choked into his pillow as he tried to muffle his noises before they echoed through the walls so that Sam’s neighbors gave him odd looks in the hallway. Again.

“Shut up,” Sam answered with a valiant chuckle that was cut off as Dean started jack-hammering himself in. Sam immediately laid back and hung on for the ride, legs scraping against Dean’s arms as he folded Sam nearly in half and kept going, driving in harder like Sam wanted. He wasn’t sure if he’d voiced his want aloud or not, but he was insanely grateful when Dean pushed in further and kept hitting against that place deep inside Sam that sparked in pleasure every time Dean hit it just right.

Within minutes, Sam could feel the end coming in the stutter of Dean’s movements and the way Dean shoved and swiveled his hips. When Dean looked up, Sam let his eyes go soft and pleading, and thankfully Dean understood; grabbed onto one of Sam’s legs so he could balance and grab Sam’s cock with the other. And Sam _could_ have done this himself, but he hadn’t been lying about loving Dean’s hands. The feel of Dean’s mechanic-nimble fingers—still slicked up with lube—was a hundred times better than when Sam had to settle for getting himself off, and he bucked into Dean’s skilled, efficient grip on his cock, feeling himself unraveling.

It only took a few pumps before Sam tensed up and then his orgasm hit him like a tidal wave, shooting out over his belly and splattering on his shirt. Dean’s fingers fumbled clumsily as he milked Sam through the end because Dean was right there with him, filling Sam up and groaning as he finished and let his weight fall into Sam.

After taking a couple minutes to catch his breath, Dean adjusted his hold and pulled his softening cock out, shooting Sam a satisfied smirk. Sam grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled him back in for a kiss, moving his lips across Dean’s flushed neck and cheeks where his scattered freckles stood out more starkly against the salty glow of his skin.

Grabbing the closest shirt he could find, Dean cleaned the both of them up before throwing it into that same black hole across the room where Sam’s pants were. It was way too hot to cuddle the way Sam wanted, so Sam settled for pulling Dean’s head near his shoulder, feeling the soft scratch of hair against his bare arm and the solid form of Dean’s body next to his.

“You jerk,” Sam yawned out even as he shifted closer to Dean. “That was _my_ shirt.”

Dean snorted. “Whatever, bitch. You know you’re just going to steal my clothes in the morning.”

Sam smiled into Dean’s hair, thinking that Dean was onto something there and mentally sorting through Dean’s t-shirt collection. But before a final decision could be reached between Dean’s black AC/DC shirt and his soft grey Metallica one, exhaustion forced all of Sam’s thinking powers to shut down, and everything went black until morning.

*&*

“It’s pretty hot for a turtle neck,” Sam commented slyly at breakfast the next morning while Dean shot eye-daggers his way.

“I didn’t know you even _owned_ one of those, son,” Bobby joined in, slipping eggs onto both boys’ plates and giving Dean an odd look.

“Yeah, well, I do,” Dean replied snarkily, reaching across the table to grab at the plate of toast. “And I don’t really need to hear fashion comments from the trucker-cap king, okay?” Making a face, he gestured vaguely towards Bobby with his piece of toast, adding, “Do you even own anything besides plaid shirts and hunting vests?”

“I might not be winning any fashion runway shows,” Bobby conceded with a sarcastic turn to his lips, “but at least I won’t die of heat exhaustion, which is more than I can say for you and that heat-rash-waiting-to-happen wrapped around your stubborn, idjit neck.”

While Bobby went to grab the milk from the fridge (while muttering something about ungrateful sons), Dean turned to Sam and, under his breath, said, “I’m gonna kill you. There’s a fuckin’ _purple_ _necklace_ half-way around my neck.”

“Can’t say I never got you nothin’,” Sam replied smugly, not even a little cowed at Dean’s threat. “And good luck hauling my dead, heavy ass around. I hope you know a good place to hide a body.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed and, leaning closer, he announced, “You don’t _deserve_ bacon, you over-eager sonuvabitch,” while reaching over to steal them right off Sam’s plate, placing the crisp strips straight into his mouth. With his mouth still full, Dean smirked and added, “And you better believe I know a few places I can plant your moose-sized ass where no one will ever find you.”

It was obvious that Sam didn’t believe him—if the unimpressed, single raised eyebrow was any indication—but Dean figured it was about time he introduced Sam to the _other_ family business anyway.


End file.
